The news is of tunnels.
Rabbits burrow through walls.
In my bedroom, they recur like dreams.
There are many, so many.
Something’s wrong with their bellies.
Whole warrens are swollen and sore.
You’ve seen them on maps (nests clumped in dim corners),
In photographs (eyes limned with debris,
Plastered with ears and daring assistance).
Their heart is a home is a hole.
